Do Wizards dream of Muggle sheep?
by Luni
Summary: Written by a Muggle with no HP knowledge at all. Enjoy.


Do Wizards dream of Muggle sheep?  
  
More than often did Harry found himself strained from dreams, nay, visions he endured amidst his uneasy sleep. Whether they were omens, unspoken truths or prophetic warnings from within, he always woke up tinged in sweat, his hair cobwebbed and uneasy - and he always woke up sad.  
  
Cooled down by the fleeing years at Hogwarts, Happy knew how to keep those surfacing menaces under check, cataloged for further use, and retrievable whenever hinted on by petty happenings - such as Hagrid's beard resembling a nimbus cloud, foretelling the coming of the gravest of menaces to his private stock of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. But the sadness lingered on, restlessly building up every other night. It remained might and tall, regardless of Harry's restraining efforts, untouched by years of magical adventures and learning; for it resided somewhere beyond the green landscapes of this Wizard land. It resided in London.  
  
In Earlsfield, to be more precise. Dawnay Road, unspecified number, midstreet maybe. Just a suburban Muggle venue, a riddle of pathways and getaways, crippled by years of mistrust and neglect; that is, until rising house prices elsewhere promoted it to upper class dwelling extraordinaire.  
  
It had been years ago. Much before that first owl mail began dismantling his little cupboard world, in old (but not good) Number 4 Privet Drive. It all began with another casual browbeat, the mandatory courtesy his cousin Dudley extended to him on a more than daily basis. As if driven by an unwritten script, Harry would always get up after the first slash (which would come by unwarily, as Harry was of the absent-minded sort) and run. Bemused, time-honored bystanders eventually arranged for a betting scheme, one where it was always a risk to gamble on what would happen: a successful escape from Harry, riding the hot tarmac out of sheer despair, or an easy catch for the preying lot Dudley led, if the set pieces were rightly put.  
  
This time, the odds were on Harry's side. After sailing away past the grocer's righteous ramblings (now that is no place to keep a box of grapes…), he sidestepped one of his cousin's partisans, with a move straight from the Smooth Criminal videoclip the very same Dudley constantly touted on the tele. But the battle was not over - that is, until the bus appeared remarkably on time. Having paid for the fare, it was now time for a victory dance, Harry Potter style: a casual check to ensure the worn-out glasses still had the same amount of lenses he had left home with, plus a careful survey for holes on his already ragged-looking pullover. Previous "accidents" had cost his lunch money too dearly, as his uncle Vernon obliged him to pay for such misdemeanors. Thankfully, this time such quarrel shouldn't occur. Safe and wholesome, Harry found himself leaning against the seat, struggling to grasp his breath. That job done, he knew he was in trouble - a trouble far deeper than he envisioned.  
  
Somehow, time had ran faster than he anticipated. More than half an hour had swept by since the ordeal began, and the afternoon was already close to an end, the Sun lazily fading away from a distance. The bus was standing heavily on its final destination, driver by its side, pulling a ciggy from his sidepocket before going back at it again. The cleaning lady ensured all was well for the return trip, and any fellow traveler had long deserted Harry. As he shook down his stupor and descended from the bus, he realized he had no more money, not for the fare back to Little Whinging, not even for a telephone call.  
  
Alone, the platform stood proudly entrenched on the surrounding boroughs, with a sign "Earlsfield Station" giving away its only purpose. At that hour, hard-working commuters already sipped their favorite brew, and only derelicts and alike roamed the streets. And Harry. He should have waited for someone to appear, expose his case and play the lost child act. It was the most sensible thing to do, asides from the complete truth. But he was, even then, no ordinary boy. So, he decided to walk.  
  
The domestic brawl that awaited him was inevitable, and Harry had no hurry to meet it. So off he went, prying eyes, as if searching for something he had lost on this place of no consequence. The buildings were big brown bulks of depression, unfathomable in their convenient nothingness. Not that he noticed it, for he was but a kid, to whom these metaphors conveyed only a meaning of plain ugliness.  
  
But when she appeared, even a blind man would stare. About his age, eyes darker than a moonless night, a face so special that nothing was deem fit to describe it. She frolicked down this Dawnay street he had never stepped before, carrying a small pouch. Harry stumbled, his feet writhing as he attempted to cast away the cloud that descended upon the scene, leaving only room for this young girl to shine on. Mesmerized, he didn't even notice that the space between them quickly vanished, until she was less than a feet away. The spell was broken with a casual "Hello!". With no time to draw a plan, all he could do was fire a heartfelt "Hi…" at her. Had he goofed? Was it appropriate? Could such a plain expression impress her? Should it? These were the thoughts that kept him busy for the upcoming days, and made his uncle's screams fade into thin air as soap bubbles on a windy day. But not now. For that face was staring at him, as inquisitive as a pre-teenager can be, and then some more.  
  
Harry was about to explain himself, to ease the pressure only beauty can impose on those lucky enough to face it. But she wouldn't allow it! With a quick drop, she came to her knees, brushing his left foot aside with her pale fingers. A swift movement and she was up and staring at him again - only this time, her eyes motioned downwards. Harry followed the invisible line they hinted, till his look struck her bare arm, then her fine wrist. Her hand was to follow, but she grew inpatient and picked his own with a sharp motion. Hand in hand they were, Harry screamed inside!  
  
But something was wrong. Her hand left his, and the cool air that replaced it outlined the offer she had left. Harry looked at it… a bus fare. It all became clear: he was standing on a bus fare, she noticed and grabbed it before one of his clumsy moves could tear to pieces his only way home. The candor of the gesture took Harry by storm, and all he wanted was to thank her, to let her know who he was, maybe visit her sometime soon.  
  
But, in the small fraction of a second he took to look up again, she was gone.  
  
Harry never found who the girl was. Many times he returned to Dawnay Street, but always to no avail. Eventually he gave up, and kept the fare as a token of the mystery he once felt for less than a minute. Later, at Hogwarts, it would still be within the few possessions he took from Privet Drive - only to be lost during one unauthorized magic contest he was reckless enough to enter. Even the clear memory of facts shivered away, as years went by.  
  
But not the dream of that late afternoon. 


End file.
